Another Night
by GlendaLady
Summary: Sam is in the midst of a depressive episode and decides it's time to go. So far, only part one. Trigger warning: suicidal thoughts and preparation. Please don't read if this will trigger you! Disclaimer: As lovely as it would be, I own none of this.
1. Chapter 1

Sam woke up. He couldn't remember the last time he'd actually done that. He didn't come to after a night of drinking or a bottle of pills. He just ... woke up. And he regretted it.

Dean was asleep, which was fine by Sam. He grabbed his hoodie and went for a run. Stopping in a glade just off the path, he pulled out his best friend, worst enemy, and only form of peace. The knife glistened in the rising sun as he sat, lost in thought.

What was he planning? Sam wasn't really sure. He knew a few lines across his leg wouldn't be enough today. What if he went a little deeper? It would be harder to hide, but it might buy him another day. It might give him enough time to not do everything running through his head.

Sam lost himself in the flowing blood. For a moment, he felt nothing. There was no pain, inside or out. And then it all came crashing back. Evidently today he hadn't gone deeper than intended. He wasn't sure whether or not to be relieved. Cleaning himself up, he headed back to the motel.

Dean was, of course, waiting for him. Barely sparing his brother a glance, lest his too-expressive eyes betray him, Sam gathered clean clothes and went to shower.

As they discussed the case, a simple salt-and-burn of a cranky teenage ghost, Sam found himself itching to get away. He excused himself to research at the library and found himself alone in a stolen car. It wasn't Baby, and it looked like it was being held together by dirt and duct tape, so would it really matter if it ended its pathetic existence by going over a guardrail?

Sam decided that he couldn't just count on the car doing the job. He stopped at the pharmacy at the edge of town and bought as many bottles of pills as he thought they would sell him. Then he went to the pharmacy just inside the next town and repeated the process.

Sitting by the only bit of mountain road he could find without high walls, he recognized the ringtone blaring yet again, out of his phone. Dean, of course. How much better could today get? He answered Dean's fifth call and tried to sound okay. He was guessing, of course, because he hadn't been okay in longer than he remembered

He figured he was doing a decent job of it when Dean accepted his story about needing a bigger library. It wasn't until Baby pulled up alongside that he realized Dean had tracked his phone.

He could still do this, Sam realized. He could just start his car and drive and pray that he could lose Dean. It was so very tempting. He could run, once again, and maybe this time he wouldn't screw up dying.

But Dean was there. His big brother, his protector, his friend, was sitting in Baby worried about Sam. He just couldn't do it to Dean. Not in front of him, at any rate.

Sam realized that his only real option had ever been to make it look like an accident. In order to pull that off, he was going to have to do his best acting ever.

Pasting a smile on his face, Sam went over to Baby and thanked his brother for rescuing him from a broken-down car in the middle of nowhere. Silently he prayed that Dean wouldn't decide to question him too closely.

If it meant Dean never had to know, Sam could make it through another night.


	2. Chapter 2

Sam was alone again. Dean had looked suspicious but had agreed to go get them some dinner. Clearly Sam's acting was imperfect but adequate. Hopefully Dean would take his time; Sam needed the space.

He'd abandoned the bottles of painkillers in the stolen car, concerned that Dean would question his purchases. Regardless, he realized he couldn't have taken them anyway. They would have shown up on the toxicology report. Hiding this was going to be harder than he had imagined. Dean would be able to tell if he let a monster kill him on a hunt and getting into a drunken barfight would just lead to Dean killing an innocent man in revenge.

There were only a few ways Sam could come up with which would legitimately look like accidents, and most of them were ways he would rather not go. Sam sighed deeply. It was all taking much too long. The longer be lived, the more people would be exposed to whatever invisible toxin it was that he spread around him. He couldn't even blame it on the demon blood, since Sam was pretty sure his soul had been contaminated since conception. Hell would be, literally, Hell, but at least there no more innocents would get hurt.

The rational part of Sam's brain told him that he wasn't thinking clearly, but the bone-weary rest of him couldn't care anymore. This wasn't the first attempt he'd made; the others over the years just proved that he was too incompetent to even die properly. He'd have to exceed himself this time. There would be no more calling the hotline in hopes that someone could convince him to keep going, no more checking himself into treatment as he went over the guardrail in his mind which was the last barrier between himself and a bottomless pit. That also meant no reaching out to Dean, either, come to think of it, because what possible good could come to Dean from contact with Sam? He was alone and done and it was time to do what was best for the world.

Sam decided it was time and he headed out to find a car with no tread on its tires. 


	3. Chapter 3

Dean blinked as he walked into an empty motel room. He was buzzed, but his Sammy radar had gone into high gear as he pondered the day's events. It was time for one of those chick flick moments he dreaded and Sam needed. They would talk it all out and Sam would be fine. Right? He had to be, because Dean couldn't take the alternative. Not again. Those memories were some of the worst of his life.

Everything looked just a touch too normal. There was a mess of Sam's possessions scattered around, but not enough. The weapons were all accounted for, but that actually made Dean worried that Sam had left the hotel unarmed. Dean even broke the promise he had made to himself and verified that the razor blades were still in the lining of Sam's duffel.

Every time he saw them, he wanted to be sick. Sam would never know that Dean knew because that would only devastate Sam. After a long night of drinking and an even longer talk with Bobby, Dean had decided that if Sam needed this to deal, Dean would leave it be. Twisted as it might be, Sam always looked more collected after a too-long shower or run, and Dean knew exactly how dark the inside of his brother's head could be. Picking up a phone that felt like it weighed a thousand pounds, Dean dialed the only family they had left.

After alerting Bobby that Sam was in trouble, he called his Speed Dial One. Sam answered with some excuse about checking out a spot the papers had mentioned the ghost had visited often. Dean offered to meet Sam, but Sam said he was on his way back to the hotel anyway. Dean nearly lost control as he listened to the same excuses Sam had used the last time he was planning to die, and Dean knew they were both running out of time.


	4. Chapter 4

Sam wasn't sure what to think after his call with Dean. Had Dean somehow figured it all out? Was Sam just going to walk back into the hotel room to his big brother throwing punches or planning to lock him in Bobby's panic room? Sam had to admit, he deserved either. He could face either. What he dreaded, though, was the possibility of walking in and Dean being okay. Hurt, scared, angry: these were all Deans which Sam knew how to face. What if his brother was truly comfortable with Sam's choice, though? What if he not only knew, but accepted, that Sam needed to die? What if he was hoping for it, even? Sam knew he'd shatter into a million pieces if that were the case.

Sam knew part of him desperately wanted Dean to know, to find a way to keep him safe. He wasn't sure exactly how his big brother would do it, but if there were a way, Dean would find it. That's what Dean did. It just wasn't fair to put Dean through it again. When Dean had found him after Sam tried to drown himself, Dean had burst into tears and begged his brother to come to Bobby's and heal. When Dean found him unconscious and seizing and going into shock after failing to take his medication, Dean had been angry and scared and Sam had thought it would never end.

But Sam had put his whole self into healing and, for a time, it had worked. Sam hadn't wanted to die. Were there fleeting thoughts here and there? Of course. But being at his breaking point? It had been a decade. Now, he was back here sitting staring over the edge of a cliff and trying to work up the energy to get into the car and drive it off the side of the mountain. If that was too hard, was there any remote possibility he had what it took to survive? Did he even care enough to try? That cliff just looked so damn tempting, and was there even a point to being alive when he just destroyed everything around him? His presence made life worse for the people he loved.

Sam knew he couldn't put this off any longer and that Dean deserved at least an explanation, if Dean knew anyway. He called Dean back and asked him to pick him up. Once again, Dean didn't even have to ask for directions. He'd been tracking Sammy's cell for an hour. Ten minutes later Baby pulled into view and Dean hopped out, a six-pack in his hands, and was that a box of tissues?

"Dude, seriously, beer? And tissues?" Sam whined. "You really think crying it all out and getting drunk is going to fix this? If so, you should have brought a whole lot more alcohol."

Dean just smiled and sat down next to Sam. It all became a bit more real to him, though, as he settled himself next to his everything and looked at the jagged rocks and the waves below. It was happening again, wasn't it? Was Dean even remotely prepared for his worst nightmares to resurface? It didn't really matter, though, whether he was ready or not. It was real. And they were going to face it together, this time.

Sam accepted it when Dean pulled him closer, even though he was half afraid whatever invisible goo spread from him would infect his brother. Dean really did love him, and that was all that he could ask for tonight.


	5. Chapter 5

Bobby was beyond relieved that this time, at least, he was only an hour away from the brothers when Dean called. Miracles like that didn't happen to the Winchesters, ever. He was halfway out the door before Dean even finished explaining about the day. His boys needed him.

Uncle Bobby knew where Sam was coming from. He even kind of understood the logic. He didn't agree with it, mind you, because the boy was pure and good as the day was long, but what mattered was that Sam believed it. Sam had his dark side, and the demon blood had been a disaster, but that had all been to save Dean and the world. Sam couldn't kill a fly without guilt, but the concept of sacrificing himself for the people he loved came as easily as breathing, sometimes easier. Now it was time to talk Sam back again. If they could just convince him that they needed him, wanted him, loved him, that they didn't believe what he believed, they could buy some time for Sam to get medicated, get therapy, and get back to himself. Bobby was getting too old for this, honestly, but he loved the boy like his own son, and he was going to do whatever it took to keep Sam safe from Sam.

Dean had sat by Sam, drinking and breathing, and hoping that Sam would start the conversation. Halfway through his second beer, Dean opted to start things off. "So, not tissues. Exactly who do you think I am? These are fast food napkins stuffed in a box I saved from the last time you had the flu. Tissues, really?"

He was rewarded by Sam's choked-off laughter and the sob which his brother had been holding in. Dean could almost breathe again. "Tell me, Sasquatch, what's going on in that brain of yours? I know what you're thinking, but tell me why. All of it."

"Let's go back, first. I really, really shouldn't be here, not with you, at least. And you called Bobby didn't you? He deserves to hear this and understand too."

Sam got up, more unsteadily than he should have from the half a beer he'd finished. Dean watched critically, fairly certain that Sam had taken something which needed fixing. Getting him into the car, Dean drove them back to the motel and Bobby, texting the hunter to expect them.

Pulling up at the motel Dean had mentioned, Bobby got to work finishing the preparations Dean had made. They were checking out and headed back to Bobby's, but first, they had to make sure Sam was fit to travel. Making sure all the weapons were locked away in his truck, Bobby pulled out the boys' first aid kit and started the coffee. Dean said they'd be back in a few minutes, and it was set to be a long night. Sighing, Bobby ordered Chinese and settled down to wait.

The door opened and the boys walked in. Well, Dean walked, and Sam kind of stumbled along, supported by Dean. Bobby and Dean sat Sam on the bed and tried to rouse him, but he was becoming increasingly unresponsive. Certain now that Sam had taken something, Dean searched the room frantically. It was Bobby, though, who found the empty bottles of insulin in Sam's pocket. Sam was going into a diabetic coma.

Knowing that they couldn't take Sam to a hospital, Bobby headed out to the pharmacy, which through another miracle, was still open at that hour. He rushed to the back and bought a bottle of glucose tablets. It wasn't a perfect solution, not even a good one, but it would have to do. It wasn't like they could get Sam awake long enough to swallow the tablets. Bobby pulled an IV kit and some saline from the truck and made his own glucose drip, hunter style. He'd had to run enough IVs into the boys over the years that he just carried his own supplies. Morphine, blood, antibiotics; it had taken a lot of effort on Bobby and John's parts for the boys to survive to adulthood, and it didn't look like Bobby was going to get a break anytime soon.

While Sam was out was the perfect time to undress him and check just how much damage he'd done. There was no way on Earth that Sam would let them do it while he was conscious. Dean wouldn't have let Bobby, anyway. Sam's secret had to be safe, as messed up as it was, because that was the compromise Sam had found which kept distance between his brain and his gun.


	6. Chapter 6

Dean had known it was going to be bad. He just hadn't been prepared for the reality. Even seeing his brother nearly die, again, he hadn't expected what he'd seen when they inspected Sam. The straight lines were bad enough. At least they weren't infected. It looked, though, like Sam was copying a thesaurus on his thighs. Dean knew his brother meant each and every one of the multisyllabic epithets which now graced his limbs. How had he found time to carve all of that into himself? And, based on how deep some of the letters were, how much blood had Sam lost, anyway?

They redressed Sam and went to go eat the now-cold Chinese which Bobby reheated in the microwave. Sam would be up soon, and it was going to be a conversation to remember. As they sat in silence, lost in thought, Sam stirred. He took one look at them, looked at the IV, and buried himself in the blankets.

Sam honestly wasn't sure how long they were going to let him stay cocooned. Chances were an epic chick-flick moment was coming, but he didn't feel nearly ready for that. He should have known that Dean would figure it out. He had hoped that he could drop his blood sugar enough that it would look like he'd collapsed and crashed the car. He wasn't eating much these days anyway, and it was plausible deniability for Dean's sake. But, big brother had once again come to the rescue. Sam didn't know whether to be grateful or disappointed. Maybe if he pretended nothing had happened, Dean would forget the conversation at the cliff. That could happen, right?

Tentatively, he peeked over the blanket's edge and found his brother and surrogate father watching him. There was no getting out of it now. Maybe, though, there was a way to make it easier for everyone. Sam pulled out a deck of cards and headed over to the table. Bobby, catching on, started to clear away the leftovers. Dean, though, hadn't clued in. "Poker, Sam? Right now?"

"No, Dean. I don't have what it takes for poker at the moment. But, we can play war." That had been a go-to when they were kids sitting around Bobby's waiting for their dad to come back alive from a hunt. It was simple, reliable, and no one had to keep track of anything. War sounded like the perfect excuse not to have to look at each other while Sam said his piece and they said theirs. Reluctantly, Dean dealt out a pile of cards to each of them.

"So, you know what happened tonight. But, you don't, really." Sam was trying his best to explain himself before any of them lost control, but finding the words was an almost insurmountable obstacle. "I know you don't, won't, agree with everything running around in my head. And I guess, while I will never understand how you can love me, I get that you do. So, you deserve to know. I'm sorry, for everything."

"It's like there's this fortress in my mind. Most of the time I live in it with my books and my research and I do my thing. Sometimes, though, after a bad hunt or losing a friend, I wander outside. I have gardens with a giant stone barrier. I don't want to use the word wall, for obvious reasons, but that's what it is. As long as I stay on the inside of the barrier, I'm okay. I might not be great, but I'm okay. It's when I go over it that things get bad. The barrier is there when I'm feeling really lost and alone and depressed and I can't pull myself out of it. Sometimes I sit on the top of the barrier and remind myself that Dean needs me here and that what my mind tells me isn't true. Sometimes I can't stop the thoughts, though, and I find myself on the rocks outside. It's dark and there's a hurricane coming. The wind's picking up and I'm drawn against my will to the guardrail. That's the moment when I'm at my lowest. When I'm standing there, looking down at the rocks and the waves, it's like the guardrail is there keeping me safe, being that last line of defense." He sneaked a peek up at his brother and realized Dean was probably seeing the cliff they'd sat at a few hours before.

"I know the exact moment that I'm going over the guardrail. It's the moment when I'm just not going to keep myself safe. You've seen some of those times. There are some you don't know about, and you don't need to. I've been at that guardrail with the wind blowing for awhile now. I tried. I really, really tried hard to keep fighting. But I couldn't, not anymore. I'm poison and everything would be better for everyone around me if I weren't here. I couldn't do that to you. I couldn't infect you with whatever it is which is so intrinsically me and so toxic. And, for the record, you weren't supposed to know."

As Sam stopped speaking, Dean gave up all pretense of playing. That was both the most horrifying imagery he had ever heard from his brother and the first thing about Sam's thought process that made sense to Dean. All Dean could do was promise himself that he'd make sure Sam stayed firmly planted in his armchair by the fire from now on, and if Sam found himself out smelling the roses, Dean would drag him back in.


	7. Chapter 7

There wasn't really a point anymore. Everything that needed to be said, had. At least, that was Sam's perspective. He knew who and what he was. His family, his good and loving and patient family, refused to see the truth. He couldn't really blame them. It was a lot to deal with, and they needed to believe in him. He just hoped that eventually, when he finally died, when it was finally all over, they would understand. He was a monster, and he needed to die. Sam just hoped that they would, one day, let him go.

No one really needed to tell Sam that he was worthless. No one really needed to tell him that it would be better if he were gone. No one really needed to tell him that he was going to hurt everyone around him for the rest of his life. He already knew that. He couldn't have stopped believing it if he tried, and he'd stopped trying long ago. All that was left was the cleanup. All that was left was the damage control and taking himself out of the picture and sparing his family the pain of his existence.

There were days, years even, when Sam fought. He tried to be good and kind and deserving of the love he received. He never succeeded, but at least he tried. Those were the days when he sat reading in his fortress. The thoughts were still there, of course, but Sam could push them aside. He could repeat back to himself the reasons that he should stay and tell himself that, at least, he was neutral. He might not be doing any good, but at least he wasn't making things worse. Sam had been out of his fortress for, what, a month? More? He couldn't remember. And he knew that, this time, he didn't have the strength to go back. He couldn't fight his way back over the barrier. He was stuck, wind blowing him up against the guardrail, and he couldn't move.

When was it that he'd decided not fight anymore? When was it that he accepted the truth and planned all of this? Did it even matter anymore? It was the next right thing, and for once, he was going to do what he ought. No more knives. No more vodka. No more telling Dean what was in his brain. It was time.

The problem was, his family was sitting at the table with him. He knew they were going to fight for him, and he couldn't actually care. He was too tired. He was going to let them all down, and there was no stopping it. He just needed to wait a bit, let them calm down, and then he'd stop torturing them with his existence. How long was it going to be until they let him out of their sight? How long was it going to be until they, too, got tired of trying? How long was it going to be until they, too, understood that he needed to do this, for them? How long was it going to be until they gave him permission, or killed him themselves?

Sam couldn't let that happen. His own dad had told Dean that, if Dean couldn't save Sam, he would have to kill Sam. That had hurt Dean so much, in ways that Sam didn't even want to think about. He couldn't blame his father for his logic, because it was right. He blamed him, though, for putting it on Dean. It had been his dad's responsibility, and now it was Sam's. He had to be the one to kill himself, because there was no way that he was letting Dean or Bobby carry that guilt. Yes, he was a monster who needed to be hunted. But his family wouldn't, couldn't, see that, and it would hurt them to kill him. Sam had to save them from the guilt and also from himself.


	8. Chapter 8

Sam dutifully returned to Bobby's with Dean. It was, after all, the least he could do. He had to play his part a bit longer, and while he wasn't sure he had what it took, Sam would do anything for his family. They fixed cars and played cards and Sam even went to the hunter therapist that Bobby had located. The medication Sam's therapist prescribed did a little to help the exhaustion, but that was about it.

Dean watched Sam go through the motions of everyday life. He got up, showered, ate, and even talked a bit. But there was no essential Sammy spark behind his brother's lifeless eyes. Then Eloise entered their lives.

A stray cat had given birth in one of Bobby's garages. The tiny kittens were so helpless and Sam would sit with them for hours. He named them all, and the tiniest he named Eloise. He carried her around and explained about the motors and fenders and other bits of cars that Dean was fixing. He talked about Bones, the dog he'd had to leave behind, and about riding donkeys while visiting the Grand Canyon. Sam would talk to Eloise forever, and she was willing to listen, mewling when he stopped to take a drink or hand Dean a tool. She cuddled up next to him on the porch and Bobby even let Sam bring her into the house.

Dean and Bobby were in the kitched preparing dinner when they heard Sam start to talk about what really mattered. He was telling Eloise about how scared he was, about how much he didn't belong, and how he hurt the people around him. He opened up to a tiny, helpless ball of fluff in ways he couldn't anymore with the humans he loved most. Hearing the pain in Sam's stories was painful beyond measure, but Bobby and Dean were relieved that, for whatever reason, Sam seemed to be sharing the burden with another living being. They had acquired a new family member.

That night Sam woke up screaming, drenched in sweat, and all Dean could do was hold him like he had when Sam was a child and whisper the same comforting phrases over and over that had banished Sam's night terrors all those years ago. Sam just sobbed, words an impossibility for the moment. A tiny gray mound of fur crawled into his lap and Sam petted Eloise as she licked his arm. Dean honestly wasn't sure who helped more: Dean or Sam's new therapy kitten.

The next morning, Dean was stunned to find Eloise alone in the kitchen. That clearly couldn't be a good sign. Dean picked her up and raced off to find his brother. It didn't take long. Sam was in their room, sitting on his bed, gun loaded and aimed at his head. Dean approached slowly, uncertain how his brother might react. Would Dean startle him and cause Sam to fire accidentally? It was as if Sam couldn't even hear Dean's words. Then, a tiny squeak filled the room and Sam looked up. His eyes were glazed over but searching. He caught sight of Dean and Eloise and the fog began to lift.


	9. Chapter 9

Sam woke up to beeping and bright lights. It took him a moment, but after what felt like an eternity, he placed the noise: a heart monitor. That meant he was in a hospital, which, since he had no idea what had happened, meant he needed to get to Dean. What if Dean were hurt? What if ... but no, he couldn't go there. Dean had to be okay. 

With a gigantic effort, Sam forced his eyes open. The oxygen mask was irritating, now that Sam was aware of its presence, and he tried to reach up to push it away, but he couldn't move. Fear rising, Sam realized he couldn't move his head, either. The heart monitor sounded as Sam entered panic attack territory. 

Dean was instantly hovering where Sam could see him, and Dean's fingers brushed Sam's bangs back in a gesture Sam recognized as Dean trying not to lose control. Baby brother came first, just like always. His presence calmed Sam enough that his breathing eased, and the memories started flooding in. How could Dean be here, and why didn't he hate Sam? It made no sense. 

"Easy, Sam," Dean soothed. "The results from the tests will be back soon, and then we can get the neck brace off. The doctors needed to be sure you didn't hurt anything when you woke up." Sam heard what Dean wouldn't voice: his arms were tied down to prevent him from trying again. Sam closed his eyes, the only form of retreat he had left. When was this going to end? Why wouldn't they just stay away and let Sam die? 

Seeing the anguish in his Sammy's face, Dean continued. "We weren't really sure what you had taken, so they pumped your stomach. You were pretty close to alcohol poisoning, and that's the only way we think we can get you out of here. When they ask, you'd been sober for years and then your girl broke up with you. Tell them you hadn't realized how much you'd had to drink and you passed out behind the wheel." 

Sam stared at his brother in awe. How had Dean planned all of it out and charmed the doctors? He was almost afraid to ask what stories Dean had concocted for the nurses about this mythical girlfriend, and he knew he was too disoriented to maintain the lie. Staying quiet and telling the doctors it still was too fresh to discuss would have to be enough. 

"Of course, we also told them you had a history with pills, just in case the tox screens came back positive." Dean was nothing if not determined. Knowing he couldn't leave Sam in the care of doctors who had no idea how to handle a mammoth who dreamed about being trapped in the cage with Lucifer, Dean had once again ridden in and saved the day. "By the way, your sponsor, Bobby, will be back from getting coffee any minute now. Yours will have a straw, since we could hear your breathing change. We're grateful that he had seen you at a meeting and come over to talk. If he hadn't let me know something was up, we might not have found the crash in time." 

"Idjit," Bobby said from the doorway. Sam smiled, and that almost sent Sam into tears. Why did these men love him? Why did they not see how much better off they would be without him around? How could he breathe, knowing just how badly he hurt everyone around him? That, after all, was why he'd hotwired the car and driven off the mountain, so that they would be safe from him. Dean might have found Eloise before Sam could pull the trigger, but he couldn't stop Sam if he could get far enough first. 

"Don't worry," Dean said, reading his brother's face again. "Jody has Eloise. She's in good hands and can't wait to see you again. I wanted to bring her, since she seems to be the only one who can reach you now, but the doctors refused." Sam risked a glance and was shocked to see only gratitude in Dean's expression. "Yeah, I would rather you open up to me than to her, but we'll get there. Right now you need someone you can take care of and I'm glad you have her. Just don't do this again, to any of us. I need you, and so does she."


	10. Chapter 10

No matter how long the shower, how much he scrubbed, Sam didn't, couldn't, feel clean. He could feel Lucifer touching him, doing unspeakable things to him. The nights were the worst, since Sam had nothing to occupy his mind. He woke up screaming every night and shrank from Dean's comforting hands. Every human touch just seemed to escalate the sensations.

Eloise was able to snuggle with him and her warmth and the thrum of her contented purrs sometimes calmed him. Sometimes the flashbacks were just too strong and even she could just be a presence. On those nights Sam, Dean, and Bobby would drink and play cards or just sit and watch a movie. Sam knew he was safe at Bobby's; he just couldn't convince his body.

Sam's therapist prescribed more medication and increased therapy to three times a week. Sam turned to his knives, the razor blades no longer enough. The blood helped, a bit. He went too deep, sometimes, and Dean had to stitch him up. Trying to do that without openly noticing the scars running all over his brother was one of the hardest things Dean ever had to do.

Art therapy actually seemed to help. Sam could never bring himself to draw his nightmares, but collages got the point across pretty well. They also helped him process some of the guilt he felt both for being a burden on his family and for existing in the first place. Mandalas let him think through everything without having to explain any of it. He took up sculpting with clay simply to keep his hands busy. Dean couldn't even bring himself to tease Sam for the knitting, though he was pretty sure everyone they'd ever met would get a scarf that Christmas.

Sam, to his own amazement, found himself laughing when Eloise stole his yarn. He spent an entire night designing a kitten-proof yarn bowl. He researched paints which were safe for cats and taught her to paint with her paws while he used his fingers. Their products were existential at best and muddy messes at worst, but Dean and Bobby hung them on the fridge as "Eloise's first artwork". Truth be told, they were proud of Sam's progress. He finally had a way to release some of the pressure safely. Sometimes the collages were all death and blood and pills, but Sam was expressing himself and his family knew what he was thinking.


	11. Chapter 11

Sam, at his therapist's suggestion, took up journaling. He knew Dean would read anything he wrote on paper, so he used his computer and password protected the file using random letters and numbers selected by closing his eyes, opening books, and placing pins in them. It was the only way he thought he might, possibly, be able to create a password his brother wouldn't guess. Dean already knew and guessed too much. He didn't know what all Lucifer had done to his little brother, and he certainly didn't know exactly how much Sam still hated himself. There was no need, Sam reasoned, for Dean to ever know the details.

It was Wednesday, and Sam had come home exhausted after a particularly draining appointment. Everything was raw and colors and sounds were overwhelming. Sam told Dean and Bobby he wasn't hungry and excused himself to go up to bed. In all reality, Sam pulled blankets and pillows into the closet and hid. He was having flashbacks and could feel everything happening all over again. The small space made it easier for him to breathe and retain some connection to the present. His laptop balanced precariously on his knees, a box of tissues and a bottle of water next to him, Sam wrote.

Sam wasn't exactly suicidal anymore. He had just given up. He didn't really care, either way, whether he made it out of this alive. It was all too much like his worst earlier episode. He remembered how close he had been to losing everything from hunting all the way up to Dean. This felt exactly like that, and Sam recognized the danger signs. He was just too tired to do anything about it. He knew he was risking being alive and alone, but he didn't have the energy to fix it. Either he would lose everything, or he wouldn't, and Sam knew, deep inside, that if he lost everything, he would lose himself, too. But picking up the pieces was officially beyond him.

Dean entered the room and knocked gently on the closet door. Sam knocked back. It was the proof of life they had established when Dean couldn't handle not knowing what Sam was facing inside his cocoon. Sam couldn't always talk when it got bad enough to resort to the closet, and Dean respected his brother's literal need for the closet, but Dean's knock showed that he was ready to be there when Sam emerged, and Sam's knock meant that, at some point, he would open the door. Somehow they both felt a little bit less empty after that particular ritual, and Dean would take whatever they could get right now.

Dean brewed coffee, brought another bottle of water and a banana, and left them all outside the closet while he took a shower. When he emerged, Sam had retrieved the sustenance and turned on a flashlight to ward off the darkness. Dean lay sleepless on his bed, listening to the choked-off sobs issuing from his brother, and prayed that Sam would be okay. Dean could be there, could listen and hug and banter, but this was one battle he couldn't fight for Sam. Dean's entire reason for existing was shattering in the closet and Dean couldn't protect him or take away the pain.

Eventually the sobs slowed and Sam drifted off into sleep. These moments left Sam exhausted physically as well as emotionally, and Dean knew that his brother was out for the night. In the morning they would gather up their broken bits before Sam emerged and they would go on with another day. It wasn't perfect, it wasn't even good, but it gave Sam the semblance of safety and control he couldn't hold onto when he could feel Lucifer's hands on him, and Dean let himself drift off too, knowing that the worst was over for the moment.


End file.
